LITMIR.BIZ

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needed to leave.

      “This way,” he said, and led her out and along the corridors back to the central stairs.

      “Do you actually live in this palace?” she asked.

      “Yes, I’ve lived here for some time.” He left it at that.

      “Staff?” The camera clicked again.

      “A couple of dailies, housekeeper and cook. Neither is here this late today,” he said as they walked up the stairs. Her hand, long nails the same shade as droplets of sweet fresh blood, trailed along the glow of the polished banister. Incredibly provocative.

      “They won’t be wanted on the days we film. The band wouldn’t like it. Everyone is vetted before they take part in a shoot.”

      “I see. Will the group object to my presence in the house? I, of course, won’t disturb their work.”

      “No, that’ll be fine, Mr. Johansson.”

      “Here, this is the main guest suite.” He indicated the intricately carved door.

      She reached out to cup the polished brass handle.

      “Please, go in.” He said no more and waited for her to enter. The enticement of her fragrance had worked on him all the way here, and he wanted to memorize her true scent. He’d know her again anywhere.

      The animal stirred within. A smile curved his lips. He’d find her no matter how far away she might be, and when he did, he’d need no introductions.

      Holy Angels, not now! Not again. Never!

      He’d sworn it, and lived with the oath so long.

      She paced about the room, nodding. “Fabulous, just the kind of thing I want. I’ll sort the right soft furnishings.” Her eyes sparkled as she took in the massive four-poster bed with its elaborate drapes, and she snapped more photographs. She tapped out a quick set of notes, and he enjoyed her concentration.

      The delicate form of her features intrigued, at odds with her rather brash manner. He forced himself to observe because if he didn’t, the tortuous images of her minus her bizarre outfit might take control and he’d make them a savage reality.

      A small wrinkle formed at the corner of her eye with her smile. “Okay, thanks a lot. I think we can certainly say this will be the place to shoot the Timeless film. I’ll email you with all the major details at the beginning of October, though the tech guys will need to visit before I can finalize everything.” She flipped the computer closed. “Franklyn will discuss finance with you. He supervises all that.” A little shrug of her shoulders followed, and he watched like a man starved of beauty. “I don’t ever get involved with the money side of things,” she said.

      “So, when can I expect the film crew? Do you have any idea?” Soon, thankfully, she’d leave. He breathed a small sigh of relief, though he still warred with the creature within.

      “End of October I would guess, maybe even Halloween. This place is perfect for it. We could have a fantastic Halloween party once we finish the shoot.”

      A shiver ran over him. Impossible. Not that night, no matter by what name she called it. There could be no worse night for them to come here. He would be at his weakest, the monster as strong as it could ever be. “I won’t agree to the date.”

      “Now, hold on. Franklyn said you were open to reasonable requests,” she said.

      “No, Miss Armstrong, not that day, or night,” he snapped, and silenced her.

      The air crackled with the challenge she stared back. But he sensed when her opposition disappeared, though he could still scent her unwillingness to acquiesce. An involuntary spasm twitched in his hand. She was so primed for the next step. But he wasn’t, never would be again. “You are ready to leave,” he said.

      Her eyes flashed, widening at his tone, and for the first time since she’d stepped into his house, her composure faltered. Perhaps she’d made an intelligent perception, discovered all was not as it appeared.

      “You may bring the crew in the night before or after October thirty-first, but not on the thirty-first, Miss Armstrong. I’ll show you downstairs.” A small kernel of warmth grew in him, as she compliantly nodded. He remained in command of himself and his world.

      “I’ll need to arrange for the technicians to view, especially the lighting manager,” she said, hurrying after him as he strode down to the hall.

      “You may email me possible dates for their visit.” Through the window, rain fell again from the lowering sky. As she zipped her bag closed, the sound dragged his gaze back to her.

      Luscious, lovely, so youthful and ripe, she flaunted her vitality. The thought tore through him so he had to clear his throat.

      She must leave, and now.

      He helped her on with the still damp coat, and while she tugged the belt tight about her, had to resist the urge to touch it.

      “Bye, Mr. Johansson, I’m sure we’ll meet again,” she said, offering her delicate hand.

      The skin of her fingers, soft and supple, the warm, lace covered palm rested in his a second too long. “Goodbye,” he said with a last look, drinking in the wide, coal black pupils centered in the dazzling green irises of her eyes. A picture of them stayed with him as he closed the door behind her, and her fragrance still pooled about him.

      Hunger for her rose, hot and almost unstoppable. He shook his head. “We’ll not meet again if I can help it. Not tonight, not later. Not ever would be better.”

      Miss Armstrong would be forgotten, in a few weeks. Perhaps by the end of the month he’d not even remember the delicate flush on her cheek or the fiery corkscrew curls twining over her marble-pale shoulder.

      Fixated as a drowning man watching a life belt drift away, he stared through the window at her shimmering crimson heels as she skittered down the driveway to her car.

       Chapter 2

      Stunned by his dismissal, Sian got into her car. A shiver of relief ran over her. She’d never been so glad to leave anywhere. Shoving the prickly sensation the house’s owner induced aside, she dug her phone out of her bag and hit the key to bring up her boss’s number. “The Gothic’s a goer, Franklyn. I’ll email you more details for tomorrow morning and send shots of the main rooms we’ll probably use.” She left the message, her tone confident as usual. But right now, with the sense of unseen eyes boring into the back of her head, she didn’t feel so self-assured.

      Since joining Franklyn’s company at seventeen, and learning his ways with those in the business, she’d grown used to dealing with temperamental artists and others like them, but in all her four years working for the business, she’d not once met anything like Johansson’s dark gaze. He’d proven almost too much, too intense, too... She couldn’t find a word for it.

      His look when she arrived had held more than the usual male appreciation for her body. The bold, assessing glances were reminiscent of a caged wild cat she’d once seen as a child, as though he’d been looking for a weak spot, a point of attack. Though terse, he’d been polite enough. Apart from when the suggested date for the shoot riled him. The sheer vehemence of his reply shook her. Under normal circumstances, she’d have told him to think of the money and not make waves, but him, she simply couldn’t. The moment his sophisticated veneer dropped, he’d given her chills. No one had that effect on her, not ever. Even Franklyn, in one of his formidable bouts of stern master of the workforce, couldn’t freak her out so much.

      Franklyn was a pussy cat in comparison to Mr. Johansson.

      The look of him had changed too. The flash in his dark eyes, a sudden flush of color on each cheek and his jaw had thrust outward in a savage line. The gaunt, though some might say handsome, features had taken on the look of living granite. No one had ever made her back down so quickly. But he was a client, and Franklyn wanted this house for the shoot. If she got this

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